Drowning In Fire
by VirendraLione
Summary: Yes, the title is awful and the summary is too, but I'm hoping the actual story won't be (apologies in advance if it is). Anyway, a relatively short fanfiction set not long before Vincent/Jerome leaves for Titan. Jerome/Eugene confides in his paid company for the evening. Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Gattaca. Nor do I own any of the recognisable characters I may have used in this here fanfiction. I am merely borrowing them for my own amusement. _

**Drowning In Fire. **

_**Eugene confides in his paid company for the evening, just before 'Jerome' leaves for Titan. She doesn't know why and, to be honest, neither does he. **_

_**Chapter One:**_

He's already waiting for her when she lets herself in, as per arranged. She's new and this is the first time she's been here, but he has an arrangement with her 'manager'. He knows the drill and his girls are usually discreet. After all, discretion comes with the territory.

He fixes his gaze on the ceiling and follows the sound of her heels as she strides across the real wood floor above. Her gait is slow, but he can't make out if this is trepidation or just part of a routine. He doesn't call out and offer direction; he's sure she's been told where he'll be

If it were any other evening, he'd have already moved to the bed, removed his shoes, discarded his waistcoat, poured a couple of glasses of brandy or scotch, (or whatever he fancied at the time) and they'd be waiting patiently on the bedside table. She'd descend the spiral staircase, possibly shed her cotton skin half way down. Confident. Alluring. He'd watch her pause at the last step as she surveys the minimalist decor with suspicion. He'd put her at ease with a remark of some description; something charming and long, something he could smile to and give her the chance to savour his accent. She'd love it, of course. They always did. Perhaps because it was different. Just enough to let them pretend that they were elsewhere, being properly romanced by a real gentleman in some prelude to a fairy tale ending.

But this isn't any other evening and he is not on the bed.

Instead, he is in his chair in the center of the room, eyes tracing her footfall above, almost as if he can see through the concrete. He nearly laughs at the thought; even _his_ eyesight is not _that _good.

He blinks slowly as she reaches the top step, pausing for a heartbeat. Then she lowers herself and takes the first few steps in the same patient pace as before. His own heart beats steady as she finally comes into view. Part of her anyway. Her foot, to be specific. Even from this distance he can see it is small, no bigger than a size five (if he had to guess, that is) and encased in a sleek stiletto with a burgundy sheen. The shoe compliments her black stockings, uninterrupted by ladders or holes. These girls are reputable, after all. Pricey, some would say, but worth it; they're clean and decent and more or less perfect.

Usually, he never wonders about their origins. In truth, he couldn't care less whether they're valid or not; to refuse an invalid girl would feel wrong after having lived with Vincent for so long, but tonight...tonight he wonders.

He studies the leg and picks out a mole on the girl's calf. It is barely indistinguishable from the stocking, but he can see it. Perhaps he was looking for it, or at least something like it. A scar perhaps, thin and covered up, but noticeable in the right light. A scar that would encircle the otherwise normal leg, the last remnant of pain endured the pursuit of a dream.

The girl takes another step and he cannot help but to search her other leg for anything unusual. There is nothing. It is perfect. Slim, toned and accustomed to walking in heels.

She descends further and her hips come into view. They are covered by the hem of a trench coat, but still he detects a curve there. He imagines them clad in lace, possibly in a colour to match the shoes, though black would suffice. The coat belt is tied at her slim waist, synching the jacket in an attractive rouche that serves to accentuate her feminine shape. Not quite a full hour glass, he imagines, but enough curves to hold his attention, at least.

She finally comes fully into view and he guesses that she is invalid. He would never have said so on any other evening, but tonight is not any other evening...

It's her height that betrays her; she's short, no more than five foot two. Generally, lack of height is a dead giveaway. Parents want their children to be beautiful and, apparently, height equals beauty.

In everything else, the girl is perfect; she has blue eyes that sparkle in the dim light, hair the colour of honey and skin supple and unblemished (save for a few beauty marks or moles) with the slightest sun-kissed hue.

The girl cranes her neck a little, surveys her surroundings until she finally sees him and, if there is any surprise at all at finding a cripple, she hides it well.  
She smiles instead and alights from the staircase finally. He offers a half-hearted smile and hers fades a little at this.

He detects the faintest tremour in her fingertips as she reaches for the belt and takes the two ends. She begins to pull them apart, slowly and in the manner she has come to learn in her line of work. She approaches him, careful to place one petite foot in front of the other in a seductive stride that makes her hips swing.

He blinks and looks away.

"Stop." He breathes, almost sensing the dismay in the girl.

This one small word has saddened her and this makes itself known in the moist blur on her lower lids. She tries well to hide it, takes a breath and drops her hands to her sides. She says nothing, pivots, takes the handrail beneath her palm, her left foot leads and falls upon the wooden surface with a heavy 'clack'.

The sound causes a pinprick of guilt.

"Wait." He offers, watching her half-turn back to him, an errant bead of moisture surmounting her right cheekbone, "Don't go."

* * *

_**To be honest, I am not entirely sure where this is going. It just popped into my head after watching Gattaca the other day and wouldn't let me sleep until I attempted to write it up. I have a few chapters written so far, so maybe I will upload them fairly quickly. I hope you enjoyed reading this anyway. **_


	2. Chapter 2

**Drowning In Fire.**

**Chapter Two:**

They make it to the bed in the end, but for no reason other than the distinct lack of other furniture in the space. He sits up against the pillow and she is on her stomach. Both still are dressed.

He swirls an inch of scotch in a whiskey glass, an ice cube clinking against the sides with the action. She nurses a glass of her own, catching the beads of moisture on the outside with manicured fingertips. She studies them a moment or two before she realises she's being watched and discards the droplets on the sleeve of the coat she still wears.

She avoids his gaze, clears her throat.

"Why am I here?" She asks finally, forming the words carefully as if they are foreign to her.

He wonders why.

"Because." He replies with a non-commital shrug, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip.

The answer is unsatisfactory. He can see it in her eyes, suddenly devoid of sparkle. Her shoulders tense and she straightens her back. He pre-empts her rising to leave, picks up from his last word, tries to make her think she merely misheard as if she merely failed to register his tone of voice.

"Because maybe I just want to talk." He reads her as he speaks and she meets his gaze, eyes narrowed slightly, lips parting to speak. He beats her to it.

"Maybe...I have something to confess...and I couldn't afford a priest."

He gives something of a laugh there and she feels obligated to match it, even though there is miscomprehension in her azure orbs.  
He finishes his glass and she reaches for the bottle on the floor beside the bed. He holds the tumbler steady to be refilled. He doesn't ask for ice. He's afraid she'll leave if he sends her for some.

He sips at the room temperature whiskey.

"What did you want to confess?" She asks, a tone of genuine interest in her words and he takes a moment to think, to assess her trust-worthiness.

Is she going to run and tell her colleagues about tonight? About the cripple with the confession, who only wanted to talk? Would it really matter if she did?

* * *

_**I apologise for the short length of this chapter, but I thought that this would be best to stand as it is. I couldn't quite bring myself to tack it onto either the end of Chapter One or the beginning of Chapter Three. The next chapter is pretty long, so hopefully that will make up for this very short one. Thanks for reading at any rate!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Drowning In Fire.**

**Chapter Three:**

The air around him is heavy with rain; large droplets that would soak him through if he stepped off the veranda. He is ill-prepared for such weather; his thin high-necked fleece, dark jeans and deck shoes will offer little or no protection from such a deluge. He leans forwards, palms resting on the damp white balustrade, and allows his gaze to find the horizon. It is grey and misted, the line of trees that usually resemble unrelenting sentinels on the estate's border is nigh invisible against the oyster shell sky.

Pushing his weight from the railing he rounds one of the columns and finds himself at the top of the steps leading from the porch. He takes a breath and raises a leg, ready to step.

He expects the chill embrace of the rain, the globules finding space between the fibers of his clothing, not resting until they summon goosebumps to the surface of his skin.

Instead, a band of warmth wraps around his middle.

A downward glance tells him it is Anthea; long thin fingers intertwine at his naval and, even despite the sun's shroud, a single solitaire diamond glistens on her left ring finger.

She rests her chin on his left shoulder and he inclines his head, closes his eyes, savours her breath against his cheek.

"And just where do you think you're going?" She asks, her tone spritely and teasing.

"Nowhere." He replies all too quickly.

She seems not to notice and gives him a squeeze.

"Well, you can go 'nowhere' later; dinner's almost ready."

He heaves a sigh, beseeches her with her name to just leave him be. She ignores him, releases his abdomen in favour of his shoulders and turns him, presses her lips to his.

For moments, they are two perfect people lost in the perfect kiss. Or at least that is what it would seem. He, however, is not perfect.

She is; frame slim and tall, eyes large and dark, skin pale and smooth. Her hair is the colour of chocolate and falls in glossy tresses over her shoulders. She's smart too, teaches at a boarding school nearby. Her students always get the highest grades. Her co-workers praise her upbeat demeanour, her kindness, her personality. They say she brings out the best in them, both student and adult.

He isn't sure that she was made that way, that that is what her parents specified at the clinic. Hell, he isn't even sure if that's possible.

No, he decides, finally. It is not possible. If it were, then her parents would have said 'everybody'. The doctors would have made note of that word and then they would have crafted her, instilled in her genes the coding for the ability to bring out the best in everybody.

_Everybody._

And not _'Everybody but him'._

The piece of silver in his pocket is infallible proof of this impossibility.

He half considered throwing it away, forgetting it even existed, writing it off as a bad dream or something he half-imagined one night after one too many glasses of whiskey. Even if he did, he would never be able to forget. _They _wouldn't let him. Anthea would be so proud, she'd bring it up every chance she could. His parents would be the same. His future mother and father-in-law would bring it up at dinner parties or prestigious events:

_"You'll never guess who our little Anthea is going to marry...That's right; Jerome Morrow!"_

_"Jerome Morrow? The olympic silver medalist, Jerome Morrow?"_

_"The very same!"_

They'd never see it as he did_. _They'd never see it as just second best.

But silver _is_ only second best. And that means _he_ is only second best. One step down on the podium. That is where he'll always be.

And she...she deserves better.

* * *

_**That's Chapter Three for you. Hopefully, it's getting a little more interesting now. Like I said before, I don't really know where this is going, but I wrote it for the hell of it. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. Thanks for reading!**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

He sits beside her at dinner and the room is filled with laughter and chatter and the clatter and clink of the dinnerware. He barely eats anything, but this is nothing much out of the ordinary. Instead, he scrutinises the assembled dinner guests, envies their perfection.

His sister, Jayne, sits opposite him, laughing at her lawyer husband, Gregory's, attempts at jokes. She grips his arms in a gesture of supportive affection then reaches out to take up the glass to her fingers fall to their habitual positions; middle and ring closest together, with index and little an equal space from the paired off digits. Her thumb is parallel to the middle two on the opposite side of the stem and she lifts the glass delicately and gracefully. He has no trouble imagining her cello bow in place of the glass.

There are others belonging to their generation too; a few childhood friends, a cousin or two, Anthea's mother's friend's twins, Donny and Will, both nineteen and both trying to pick future careers (their parents leaving such concerns mostly to chance).

His parents, Anthea's and Gregory's are also present and concern themselves with boasting and gloating over the achievements of their respective offspring. He listens on tenterhooks for his name, the mention of the medal, the reason for this little family dinner.

With every second that passes without mention of him, he grows uneasy. The fact that they have yet to touch upon the olympic event that very morning, means that they must be saving it for something else.

He envisages a toast on his behalf, everyone lifting their glasses to him and his silver medal. They'll call it an acheivement to be proud of and he will be forced to smile and nod and take it all in good humour whilst his superego punishes him with guilt and inward avowals of, _"You should have tried harder.", "You should have won the gold." _and _"You'll only ever be second best."_

He stays until dessert, excuses himself then, saying he needs some fresh air, breathes a sigh of relief when no one follows.

Anthea smiles kindly and mouths the word 'nowhere' with a wink. He nods, winks back, puts her at ease and leaves the room.

It is still pouring when he eventually steps off the veranda.

* * *

**_Hope you're still enjoying this fic. I have a couple of ideas for upcoming chapters so hopefully they shouldn't take too long to write. Thanks for reading ! _**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

The rain soaks him through in mere seconds. It summons a tremor to his frame and a fuzziness to the back of his throat that may be prelude to a cold (if he could catch colds, that is).

He has no idea where he is going, or what he might do when he gets there. He could circle around the estate, return to the mansion where jokes would be made about how he merely couldn't stay out of the water, be it that of the pool or precipitation. He could walk up the drive, head for the road to Horsham, take the left by the bridge and trudge alongside the restless canal, all the while wondering at its depth.

In the end, he takes the dirt track by the little cabin, used to accommodate the occasional housekeeper, and continues on through the copse. The umbrella canopy stretches over him, hinders the raindrops some. He muses a moment on how it might wish him grateful for the action, but he has no gratitude for the relief. In truth, he couldn't care less for the downpour, the rumble of thunder in the distance, the timid lightning that peeks out from behind a cloudbank, floating melancholy above the dissolving barns of the old Parker Farm.

He has other things to care about.

He thinks of Anthea and how she deserves the best. She does not deserve to be held back or dragged down by him. She deserves a man worthy of a gold medal, worthy of perfection and most of all worthy of her…

The path forks suddenly. He takes the left, loses the tree cover, tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He slows his pace and strides blind, correcting his trajectory only when his foot grazes grass. There is something unsettling in his voluntarily blindness and his mind treats him to a barrage of images of invalid cripples. He half-remembers a blind boy at his school, recalls his name with a little difficulty: Ashley Hannigan. Ashley was always there in the background, he remembers, used to hang around with Maddie Fenwick and Tom Bell.

Guilt returns when Jerome remembers the only occasion he had ever spoken to the boy; a near empty hallway, a cowardly attack by some younger boys, a cane clattering to the floor. Jerome had stared for a moment, debating whether or not to make himself known. He watched the tentative bend at the knees and the steadying hand on the wall.

Eventually, Jerome had started forwards, choking out the words, "I'll get it for you."

Ashley had tensed initially, but relaxed upon taking in the slow and steady footsteps of someone wishing to help and not the impulsively rapid gait of an attacker. The boys rose in unintended synchrony and, as soon as they were both standing again, Jerome pushed the cane gently into Ashley's left palm.

"Thank you." Ashley had offered, subconsciously transferring the assistance tool to the other hand. He had then asked for the name of his helper and Jerome parted his lips to reply, before closing them promptly at the sight of a group of year tens who had just entered the hall. They regarded him incredulously, raised eyebrows and narrowed eyes a plenty.

It was in this moment that Jerome finally realised there was a difference between boys like him and boys like Ashley, boys who were blind and boys who could read a bible passage at twenty feet.

The guilt swells as he recalls his subsequent actions; he had turned and fled in silence, taking the nearest exit and finding himself in the quad where he sought out his usual crowd. They were having lunch on the patch of grass adjacent to the music block and as he approached he was greeted with jovial tones and widened smiles.

He lowered himself into a space between Patricia Golding and Harry Jones and was immediately embroiled in a discussion about the recent disappearance of Patricia's favourite band, 'The Fight'.

"Broken up." Said Harry, matter-of-factly, chewing on a cold beef and horseradish sandwich.

"Nuh-uh." Patricia rebutted, imploring Erica Beaufort to join her cause with the largest pair of puppy-dog eyes she could muster.

Erica took a breath, ready to weigh in, "Harry, don't be silly; no one breaks up nowadays." She paused a moment, savouring the attention as all eyes turned to her. She quirked a knowing smile, "They_ get_ broken up; record sales plummet when you play to a minority demographic."

The conversation descended into chaos then and it was a chaos of which Jerome had no desire to be a part. He sat in silence instead, his stomach heavy and cold and churning with guilt. He surveyed his small circle of friends and noticed perfection in all of them.

Patricia was going to be an actress; she wasn't all that bright, but she was going to be beautiful, all doe eyes and flaxen tresses. Erica's future lay in politics, easily the brains of the bunch and able to win any argument she put her mind to. And Harry…Harry was going to be a restaurateur, owning an exclusive venue which only catered to the elite and wealthy. The details would come later, he said, but he was thinking New York or Paris.

What kind of future did someone like Ashley Hannigan have? Stricken blind through no fault of his own. His only wrong-doing was being born to parents who were either too poor or too ignorant to use GTCA.

This worried Jerome and his mind seemed loathe to leave the point for at least a week afterwards. Eventually, distraction came in the form of the annual swimming meet and the winning of first place by none other than himself.

There was much celebration and congratulation and his parents organised a party, inviting most of the student body. It wasn't until Maddie and Tom approached him at said party, did Jerome's thoughts return to Ashley and whether or not he was there.

"He's gone." Tom informed, a solemn tone in his voice.

"What do you mean gone?"

"We mean he got expelled." Injected Maddie with a sniff.

"Why?" Jerome queried, intrigue and onus tainting the word. His response was a disbelieving snort from Maddie and only when he raised an eyebrow in miscomprehension did she remit and elaborate on the action. "He's an invalid. The school's insurance won't cover them anymore."

Tom nodded sullenly, "He's having to be home schooled. Not coming back."

Over the next few days, more and more children became absent from the registers and the number of empty desks steadily grew.

Patrick Haverstock.

Jimmy Kane.

Amanda Smith.

Ruby Seville.

Jerome is not exactly sure when he forgot to remember the invalids, when it became easier to forget that they ever existed in the first place. And, in time, the desks were filled with new faces, new beautiful faces on new beautiful bodies, with new beautiful skills and who were destined for new and beautiful futures.

And here he was pretending to be blind, stumbling along the gravel trail, with no cane and no obligation, playing at something that made life so difficult for invalids across the globe.

He is supposed to be perfect, supposed to win the gold each and every time. _'But you didn't'_ sneers his superego again, _'You only won the silver.'_

He opens his eyes then, but it's too late; he's already too close to the edge of a verge and fails in his frantic attempt to steady himself, tumbles down the embankment, comes to a halt in a ditch which encompasses a long disused wheat field. He grimaces at the stench of rotten humus and stagnant water, but makes no immediate attempt to right himself.

Instead, he blinks upwards at the oyster shell sky as raindrops pepper his insensitive lenses.

Why should he have these perfect genes when he can only achieve second best?

Why should he be allowed to live a privileged and unprejudiced life if he can only win silver?

Why is he even here?

* * *

_**A long time coming I know, but I hope it's an ok chapter. I have a few ideas for the next one and a week away coming soon where I hope to get time to write more so hopefully I'll have something for you to read fairly soon. Thanks for reading. Special thanks indeed to Blue-Eyes Thropp for your encouragement, support and patience with this fanfic. Thanks for reading! **_


End file.
